CHAPTER 43: HATCHING II

He could feel the mana swirling—thickening around it, heat radiating in waves. The very air in the room was starting to shimmer faintly, like distant mirage heat over sun-baked sand.

Another crack split the shell, more decisive this time.

Tiny fragments crumbled and fell to the table like ash.

And then, like a hand reaching toward its first breath of freedom, a small, clawed limb pushed out—scaly, dark crimson with molten-gold streaks running like lava under its skin.

The egg shuddered.

And then, with one last pulse of heat—

Crack!

The shell shattered outward in a ring of glowing shards.

What emerged was a creature no larger than a house cat, but already pulsing with draconic pride. Its wings were tucked tight against its sides, membrane thin but etched with ember-like veins. It had two short, forward horns on its head and a tail tipped like a flaming whip. Its scales shimmered like freshly forged obsidian.

The Volcanic Wyvern blinked.

Then it sneezed—a tiny spark flaring from its nostrils.

Fenric raised an eyebrow.

"...You look like trouble."

The wyvern gave a high-pitched squeak and stumbled forward, legs wobbly, before crawling directly into Fenric’s lap without hesitation.

Warm.

Too warm.

He winced slightly. "Okay. Definitely trouble."

But he didn’t push it away.

Instead, he gently ran a hand down its back. The creature let out a satisfied little trill and curled up into a scaly ball, tail flicking lazily.

Fenric stared down at the curled-up creature resting in his lap. Despite its draconic lineage, it looked far too peaceful for the destruction it would one day unleash.

"From now on... your name is Ragna," he murmured, voice soft but resolute.

The name carried a weight. A promise.

This was no ordinary beast. Ragna was a mutated pseudo-dragon—one last step away from becoming a true Black Volcanic Dragon. All it needed was the final catalyst, and it would ascend.

Fenric ran a finger along the wyvern’s curved horn. "Don’t worry, little Ragna," he whispered. "I’ll make sure you evolve. A real dragon deserves a real future."

Ragna twitched gently in response, releasing a soft squeaking breath. The bond between them pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat shared between two souls.

Without a spoken word, Fenric activated the bond.

The sleeping wyvern shimmered—its small body dissolving into a stream of glowing embers—and vanished into his Mana Sea.

It was common among tamers or beast-bound cultivators. One could house their companion in their Mana Sea, Aura Sea, or any energy reservoir they have.

In Fenric’s case, his Mana Sea was vast, controlled, and very pure too. A perfect sanctuary for an beast like Ragna who need high amount of pure mana.

As soon as Ragna manifested in the depths of that endless inner world, the young wyvern jolted slightly, sneezing once as it landed in the shallows. Then, slowly, it coiled in on itself, tail curling under its snout, basking in the wet warmth of the glowing mana tides.

Ragna’s tiny wings fluttered once, then it slipped into slumber again—this time curled comfortably on the glowing Cerulean Sea.

Fenric could feel its contentment radiating back through the bond. The moist sensation of his Mana Sea no longer seemed to bother the hatchling. In fact, it... liked it.

With a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Fenric withdrew his awareness from the Mana Sea and exhaled.

He reached for the now-fractured egg shell, gathering its pieces carefully. The inner lining shimmered with residual vitality—still warm. In the wild, it was said that subspecies dragons often consumed parts of their egg for nourishment, especially right after hatching. But since Ragna had been transported directly into the Mana Sea and passed out like a drunk noble at a wine party, Fenric decided to store the shards in a preservation rune.

"I’ll feed it to you later," he said, sealing the fragments in a glowing stasis orb and setting it beside the bed. "Once you’re up and wobbling again."

He paused.

Then turned to the window, where moonlight spilled in like strands of silk across the floor. The horizon beyond was just beginning to glow with the blush of morning.

"...Guess there’s no more sleep for me."

Fenric stood, stretching his back with a muted grunt. His sleep was already broken—no point forcing it. The sun had only just begun to rise, yet the quiet restlessness in his chest demanded motion.

He changed into a simple training tunic and stepped into the rear practice hall of the estate.

It was much smaller, and not the one where others practice, it was more like an Private one.

The space was empty—unused by others and, until recently, ignored even by him. Dust clung to some corners. Practice dummies leaned like lazy drunks against the walls. But the floor was solid. The space was wide. And most importantly... it was his.

He walked to the weapon rack, took up a wooden practice sword, and began his drills.

Basic cuts.

Simple slashes.

Clumsy.

Stiff.

But honest.

His footwork stumbled, and his grip was still wrong in a dozen ways—but the raw, innate talent within him showed even through the clumsiness. Each swing refined itself a little more than the last. The movements became less awkward, less forced. It wasn’t the polish of a trained swordsman. But it wasn’t nothing.

If an expert had been present, they might’ve even been quietly alarmed by how fast the prince was adapting.

An hour passed.

And Fenric collapsed onto the floor like a dying dog under the summer sun.

"Haah... I... need... to work... on... my stamina..." he muttered between heavy pants, sweat soaking through his shirt and dripping from his chin.

Technically, he was a Soldier-rank Blessed Awakener now. Which meant more strength, endurance, and mana than an ordinary mortal.

And yet...

Just an hour of practicing basic sword movements had left him sprawled out like a drowned rat.

Pathetic.

He lay there for a few more moments before forcing himself upright.

"...Again," he whispered to himself. Then louder. "Again."

This time, he switched to a steady jog—running slow laps around the training yard, wooden sword in hand. Each footfall echoed in the morning silence. Each step a stubborn defiance of his own weakness.

He wasn’t just training form anymore.

He was building endurance.